If Grief Was A Line

Some days, you wake up with grief sitting on your chest.
Other days, it sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
Some days you wear it like a harness that's too tight, while other days you can hold it at arms length.
Sometimes it infuses the very air you breathe, making everything feel heavy and humid.
(Sometimes it feels like that for days, or even weeks at a time).
Sometimes it's triggered by something seemingly insignificant; a song, a place, a smell.
Sometimes it's triggered by something that wasn't a trigger yesterday.
Grief is confusing like that.
Some days, you might be able to leave grief at home.
Other days, it underlines every thought, every word.
Grief can make you forget things.
Sometimes it whispers, sometimes it shouts.
Sometimes grief controls your dreams.
(We grieve awake and asleep, you know).
If grief was a line, we might have a better idea of what to expect and when to expect it.
If grief was a line, we could prepare ourselves. Plan better.
If grief was a line, we might have come up with a solution by now.
If grief was a line, it might make sense.
Grief is not a line.
Grief is a minefield.